


Wherever You Will Go Part II

by Cryofreeze



Series: Wherever You Will Go [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Bearded Steve Rogers, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Depressed Bucky Barnes, Endgame Fix-It, Fix-It, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Bucky Barnes, I'll update tags as I go to avoid spoilers, M/M, Mentions of Character Death, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Sam Wilson, Protective Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Stucky - Freeform, Time Travel, because obviously, fine i'll do it myself, the very end of the movie didn't happen, you know which part I mean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 20:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19180402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cryofreeze/pseuds/Cryofreeze
Summary: When Steve Rogers never returned from the depths of the Quantum Realm he became a hero praised for his sacrifice for the greater good. He became a friend mourned, an ally lost, but to some, he became a man cast adrift in time. When Bucky Barnes gains evidence to support this theory, he and Sam Wilson set out to find a way to bring their stranded friend back home. Whatever it takes.





	Wherever You Will Go Part II

**Author's Note:**

> Hey you guys, I hope you're all recovering after Endgame or at least finding a positive way to deal with the emotional fallout from the film! Naturally, my way to cope with the devastation and heartbreak I felt is through fanfiction, because I can not and will never be able to accept that ending for Steve's arc, and so I'm making my own :)
> 
> This fic is for Steve Rogers, a character who inspired me to be brave when I didn't feel brave, who helped me to stand up for myself and my beliefs, who taught me to never give up or go back – a character who I have admired and loved, and who I still admire and love no matter what Endgame tried to do to him, and who I think we all feel deserved more respect after giving us so much over these past 8 years.
> 
> Obviously there will be Avengers Endgame SPOILERS ahead. In this story Steve never returned from the Quantum Realm, old or otherwise. The last time Bucky and Sam saw him was when he disappeared to return the stones.
> 
> And with that, I hope you enjoy Chapter One :)

 

“Barnes, you in there?”

Sam Wilson knocked at the apartment door, balancing precariously on the edge of a tiny landing beside a ridiculous amount of stairs. The honk of horns and usual city hubbub were coming though the walls of the apartment building as though they were made of paper. A train rattled past nearby and Sam could swear he felt the vibrations through the floor, even 15 stories up. He hated this damn place.

“Yo, Barnes?” Sam called again. On the landing below he could hear an argument starting up somewhere and the sound of someone's TV blasting Star Wars. Of course, there were no sounds of life from behind Barnes' door.

Rolling his eyes, Sam adjusted his grip on the coffees and paper bag he was carrying so he could fumble with the keys he procured from his jeans pocket. He slipped one into the lock and let himself inside.

Instantly Sam was plunged into almost pure darkness, blinking through the shadows and the waft of stale air that greeted him. It bothered Sam that he wasn't even surprised to find the place like this anymore, and after a moment or two his eyes began to adjust and he found his way to the sturdy wooden table in the kitchen just inside the door. The apartment was small enough that he didn't risk getting lost at least, but Sam might have tripped over whatever items had been left scattered all over the floor a couple of times.

Just as he set down the coffees and paper bag, movement in the depths of the other room caught Sam's eye. There was a shuffle, then a dim orange light clicked on and illuminated the man the army vet had come to see.

At least he was alive, Sam thought, even if Barnes looked even more like a caveman than the last time he'd seen him. The man rubbed over his face tiredly, and maybe Sam had actually woken him? Good, he thought to himself, considering it was already dinner time.

“Remind me again why I gave you a key?” The assassin's voice was scratchy and he didn't even look at Sam as he padded into the kitchen on bare feet.

“In case you died and nobody would find your body in here for weeks.” Sam crossed his arms over his chest, scrutinizing the apartment and its inhabitant in the weak light from the lamp. “Make that months.”

God, it had only been two weeks since he'd last been here, but he never got used to this whenever he came back. The windows had been taped up thickly with newspapers, a small tower of dirty dishes were piled up on the draining board, and Sam didn't even want to ask what he was stepping on or what had been crunched into the carpet under his feet. The apartment truly deserved the title of 'hovel'.

“You could at least open a window or somethin' – damn.” Sam resisted the urge to wrinkle his nose when Barnes came near him; he smelled like he hadn't showered in weeks.

Barnes cracked open the window above the sink then turned on the faucet, splashing his face and scrubbing at his overgrown beard and behind his neck before turning it off again.

Oh, that would be why, then.

The man's hair looked matted and too long – even more so than it had been when Sam had already considered it 'too long' _–_ and through the stretch of the cotton shirt he wore Sam could see the bulge of Barnes' metal arm looked considerably heavier on his frame than it had done before. He averted his eyes, sat down at the table and began pulling the burgers and fries he'd brought out of the paper bag.

“When's the last time you took a shower, man? Or ate something?”

“I eat.” Barnes turned around and leant against the counter, looking at Sam for the first time since he'd entered the apartment. Somehow he managed not to topple the dirty dishes at his back and accepted a coffee when he was handed it.

Sam spied the limited variety of old food packets and boxes littered around the kitchen, wondering if Barnes had ventured further than the convenience store around the corner in the whole time he'd lived here. Probably not.

He offered the assassin his share of the food and Barnes took them too, quelling Sam's concern for the time being.

The two ate in silence, Barnes at the sink and Sam a few feet away at the table, with the building crescendo of The Empire Strikes Back coming up through the floor to keep them company.

“How is everyone?” Barnes spoke out of the blue, distracting Sam from following along with the film in his head.

“They're good. They're getting back on track, after everything.” The army vet glanced at Barnes over the top of his burger, casually finishing his mouthful before continuing. “Re-building is coming along too. Pepper's keeping us right on schedule. Of course, we could still always use an extra set of hands -”

“No. Stop asking me.” Barnes interrupted, scowling down into his cup. Sam sighed, giving up the ruse and leaning back in his chair as he studied the sight of the other man.

“You gotta get out of his place, Barnes. It's not doin' you any favours.” He crossed his arms over his chest, levelling the assassin with his best 'I know what I'm talking about' look. It didn't have much effect when Barnes didn't even look up from the coffee cup in his hand.

Sam tried again, softer.

“You've been cooped up in here for almost a year -”

“ _No._ ” Barnes' hands shook and there was a _crunch_ as he crushed the cup in his metal palm. Hot coffee spilled over his hand and the guy didn't even flinch, just looked a little surprised, before he set the remains down on the draining board beside the rest of the mess that had gathered there. Barnes turned his back on him and the gush of the tap returned.

Sam felt his heart twinge at the sight of the guy, because he _understood._ He knew exactly why the assassin had secluded himself, why the thought of returning to the building site of the Compound, or anywhere really that the Avengers congregated, was too painful. But Sam had gotten over the fear of it months ago and was now glad of the opportunity to keep busy and be of help to people who needed him. It was the quiet, lonely moments he hated most.

But Barnes. Of course he'd taken it badly, Sam hadn't expected any less from him. He wasextremely concerned though, that after a year the guy still seemed to be going through the initial stages of grief, and it didn't seem like he would be emerging any time soon. It wasn't healthy.

It wasn't fair.

Sam sighed, rubbing his forehead tiredly. “He wouldn't want this, man.”

Instantly, he could tell he'd said the wrong thing – Barnes' shoulders stiffened, the tap shut off, and he turned around with a snarl, “We lost him in time, Sam! Was that what he wanted?” With his beard and hair overgrown like that he looked almost feral in that moment, but Sam could see the hurt in his eyes and felt only sympathy for the guy.

He didn't raise his voice in return. He didn't need to.

“Look, I know it's not what you wanna hear, but Steve _volunteered_ to go back with the infinity stones. He knew it was gonna be risky and he chose to do it anyway, to protect everyone else left behind. Yes it was a sacrifice, but he was never the type of man to count his own safety, his own life, above anyone else's. Whatever happened back there, it _worked_. He did what he had to do, and we're all still here right now because of it. If that's not what he would have wanted, I don't know what is.”

Barnes listened to his words, processed them even while he looked like Sam had just slapped him across the face with Thanos' gauntlet. There was a long moment of silence until finally Barnes moved over to join Sam, resting his weight on his palms on the tabletop. He bowed his head, breathing slowly, deeply.

“You're right.”

At this confession, Sam felt the first stirrings of hope for Barnes yet. He watched the man's mismatched hands, splayed on the wooden table and flexing as though he was resisting the urge to punch something.

“But I still can't go back there.”

Sam nodded in understanding. “Alright, you don't have to go back there. But you do still need to get out of this place, get some fresh air, just take a few days to -”

“If you don't stop talking I'm kicking you outta here.” Barnes turned away from Sam again, heading back through to the other room he'd come in from.

Sam watched after him, calling out, “At least take a shower, you're starting to look like Thor!” Barnes didn't rise to the bait, only disappeared through a door and pushed it closed behind him.

After having apparently _not_ been kicked out, Sam took this as permission to stay. He stood up, gathered the cartons from the food they'd shared and stuffed them all back into the paper bag. When the vet looked around helplessly for a trash can and couldn't find one, his first irritable thought was he should probably help Barnes out with this shit, since he obviously wasn't up for the task himself and it couldn't be safe to live in, maybe even for a super soldier.

Behind him, he heard the spray of the shower switch on and let a little smile tug up the corner of his mouth.

So, upon deciding he wasn't anybody's babysitter, Sam gave in and tossed the bundle across the room to join the already notable pile of trash spilling from the corner.

  
  


~ ~ ~ ~

  
  


“ _Bucky...”_

Sweat prickled on his skin, images flashing across the inside of his eyelids like the flickering of a film projector. Endless, distressing, exhausting, the onslaught kept him caught somewhere between awake and asleep.

“ _Buck...”_

He tossed and turned in agitation, the bedsheets getting tangled tighter and tighter around his legs.

“ _Bucky!”_

Bucky finally jolted awake, jumping into a sitting position and gasping into the musky darkness of his little apartment. His ragged breaths filled the room, with Sam's quiet snores coming from next door and a couple arguing somewhere else in the building. Bucky tossed aside the blanket and swung his legs off the mattress, sitting there hunched over until the tremors stopped.

The echo of Steve's voice lingered in his head, with the clang of knives connecting with metal and the blare of a siren slowly fading away. Or was the siren in real life? Sometimes he still couldn't be sure if he'd even truly been dreaming; often times just the waking memory of what he'd done, what he'd lost, gripped at his lungs like a nightmare.

Bucky rubbed a hand over his face, scratching through his newly neatened beard and swiping his long damp hair away from his eyes as the weight of grief tugged at the pit of his stomach.

Steve's voice had felt so close, so familiar, like Bucky could have reached out to him as sure as he was gripping the bed covers between his fingers. How could it possibly have been a year already? The thought of it was unbearable.

The pressure got worse, making his insides ache and choking in his throat until Bucky had to bite his lip to stop it all from overwhelming him again.

Growling, he pushed himself up from the bed and tread quietly through the dark to the kitchen.

It was cooler in there, with the window still cracked open above the sink. It allowed him just enough light to see by, and Bucky grabbed the first dirty glass from the draining board he could find and filled it under the tap.

The first sip, along with the cool breeze slipping through the window, helped to chase away the lingering imprint of his nightmare and Bucky wondered if maybe Wilson had been right about him needing some more fresh air after all.

As he drained the glass in small gulps, he thought back to something else Wilson had said, had been trying to drill into him for months now: Steve wouldn't have been resentful over what had happened, or how. He would have made peace with the fact that his sacrifice was for the greater good of the universe. He would have found closure in knowing that the world was recovering and carrying on without him.

It hurt like a bullet lodged deep inside his chest, but maybe, finally, it was time for Bucky to try and do the same? He closed his eyes, swiping away the tears on his lashes before they could fall onto his cheeks.

“ _Bucky...”_

The assassin vigorously shook away the memory, his fingers slipping on the glass that fell and shattered loudly in the deep basin of the sink.

Sam snorted awake from in the other room, his bleary voice calling out. “Wha's happened? Barnes? You okay?”

Bucky looked bitterly after the shards of broken glass in the sink, reaching for another from the overly-cramped draining board. “I'm fine. Go back to sleep.” He called back, only half-listening as Sam's mumbling stopped and his snoring resumed a few seconds later.

Something had caught the corner of Bucky's eye, something that caused a twinge of his Soldier's instincts to flare and tell him needed further attention. Carefully, he reached out and picked up the crunched remains of the cup he'd ruined earlier. He switched on a light, smoothing out the crumpled cardboard to where a half-smudged, coffee-stained logo was printed on the front.

There wasn't enough of the logo left to make out, but something about it plucked at the strings of Bucky's mind irritably.

He looked around at the kitchen – he hadn't really been aware of just _how_ much of a mess it was in until he was looking for something – and eventually found the scrunched paper bag on the floor beside the corner that had at some point in the last year become Bucky's trash can. He tossed the ruined cup into the sink with the broken glass and picked up the bag, fishing out the cup Sam had taken much better care of that day.

Turning it over in his hands, Bucky scrutinized the logo as the scattered puzzle pieces in his head began to jumble together in some sort of shoddy attempt to make sense:

_A rooftop; the clang of knives on metal; a siren speeding past down below; sleet raining down and driving civilians from the streets; the narrowed scope of a sniper rifle as it aimed through the window of a diner, searching the faces inside for a target._

It felt like a distant dream he'd long forgotten, but he'd had too many of these moments to easily dismiss it as anything else: it had been some time since he'd had a resurgence of a forgotten memory, clawing at the surface of his awareness like it wanted to get free but couldn't quite make it. It was annoying as hell, like that feeling of having a phrase at the tip of his tongue that refused to make itself known to him. Bucky hated the sensation, hated the way it would nag at him until he'd worked out the whole picture in his head, hated the way it intrigued him just enough that he would try to chase down the memory anyway, even though he knew what it would bring every time.

Violence. Death. Guilt. The usual.

But, this time, the nagging was more of a relief to Bucky, a welcome distraction to take his mind off his nightmare. He supposed one was better than the other anyway, even if both would probably end up hurting him in the end.

Bucky glanced over his shoulder at the Sam-shaped mound on the couch through in the living room. The mound continued to snore evenly, deep in the thralls of sleep. So he turned back to the cup, frowning at the curious niggling sensation building up inside him.

Bucky had seen this logo before, he knew. A long time ago. He just couldn't remember when or where...

He followed said curious niggling sensation to Sam's jacket slung over the back of a chair at the table. Patted down the pockets until his hand closed around the army vet's phone.

At this, Bucky paused, that can't-quite-reach-it feeling worming into his consciousness as he stood there with the cardboard cup in one hand and Sam's phone in the other. For a moment he tried to think this through – what was he really expecting to do? Did he even want to unearth fresh horrors his mind had been shielding from him and give himself even more nightmare material? Maybe it was better just to leave it alone, he wondered. But that would mean having to return to that bed and trying to get some more sleep, the prospect of which Bucky found entirely unappealing.

No, he decided, hacking into Wilson's phone easily. He had to know.

Bucky's own phone – the one Steve had given him sometime after their escapade in Siberia – was buried in a drawer somewhere in the apartment. He hadn't used it in months. He hadn't needed to. Still, he was skilled enough in the art of Google to know how to look up an address.

Sam was a kind man, but Bucky doubted he would traipse halfway across Manhattan just to bring him a burger. It turned out he was right, when the phone blinked at the location of a diner within walking distance.

Nice, Wilson, Bucky thought as he slid the phone back into the man's jacket. Way to know how far he'd go for a friend in need – all of a few blocks. Even so, Bucky hesitated to check the guy was still sleeping soundly before he sneaked to the door, unburied his own crumpled jacket and boots from under a pile of empty food cartons, and slipped outside.

  
  


~ ~ ~ ~

  
  


He ventured self-consciously along the sidewalk, metal hand in his pocket and collar turned up against the drizzle of rain and the occasional pedestrian who passed him by. None of them paid the man holding a coffee and bowing his head against the rain a spare thought, but Bucky watched them all like a hawk until they'd surpassed a safe distance from him. It was a force of habit by now.

The city smelled damp, familiar, even if this was the furthest he'd gone from his apartment since moving to the neighbourhood. Bucky thought he might have enjoyed the walk at this time of night if not for the other people out here too. He'd missed this more than he knew. It reminded him of Brooklyn, just over the Hudson. He was a lot closer to home than he'd been when living in Romania or Wakanda, but it had never once felt so far away. Bucky hadn't even considered going back there, not after...

How could he?

Finally, he drew close to the corner of the street and came to a stop, eyeing the diner across the road. He compared the logo on the empty cup he was carrying to that over the door: a match. The diner had a particularly inauthentic retro theme to it; the windows were lit up, with two or three souls visible sipping coffee at a few of the tables. Likely insomniacs too, Bucky supposed. He would have fit right in.

But he didn't go inside. Instead, he turned his head and squinted up into the rain toward the roof of the building opposite. He couldn't see much from down here, but from a sniper's standpoint it would be the place he'd pick for the best view of the diner. He resented the fact that he knew that, and would carry the knowledge of a perfectly trained killer for the rest of his days.

Bucky frowned, dropping the cup into a trash can and pulling his collar up even higher. Be that as it was, a perfectly trained killer also knew how to be unseen when he wanted to be. Bucky subtly checked the coast was clear, before crossing the street and disappearing into the shadowy alley at the side of the building.

  
  


~ ~ ~ ~

  
  


He felt weird the moment he stepped off the fire escape and set foot on the roof. A strange sense of deja vu crept over Bucky, and he slowly crossed the rooftop while keeping a look out for anything suspicious. There was nothing. It was just a roof. And yet...

Bucky eyed the door that led down into the interior of the building as he passed it. It was closed, looked like it probably hadn't been used in some time. His gaze lingered for a few careful seconds before he moved on.

What was he even doing up here? He began asking himself this question, crossing his arms tightly and missing the familiar safety of his tiny apartment. At least the rain had mostly stopped anyway.

The sudden approaching blare of a siren made Bucky's adrenaline spike – his heart jumped into his throat and he turned around, crossing to the edge of the roof to look down at the world below in anticipation –

There was nothing. No vehicle. No siren.

Bucky blinked down at the empty street, the siren ringing in his ears. He thought he heard the march of approaching footsteps coming up through the stairwell to the roof – but when he looked at the door again, waiting, nobody kicked it open.

The hairs at the back of his neck prickled.

Bucky slowly turned back to where he'd been looking off the roof: there was the diner, sitting innocently at the corner with the windows high and clear and the people inside easily visible from his vantage point.

Bucky took a shaky breath before committing himself and crouching down so he could lean his elbows on the half-wall that surrounded the edge of the roof. Using his hands as a make-shift scope as though he were holding a sniper rifle, he lined himself up...

  
  


– –

  
  


The Asset was impervious to the cold and the wet of the sleet raining down around him. He waited, still as a statue, as civilians were driven from the streets in search of shelter. Through the windows of the diner, he watched people squeeze into the small space and shake out their jackets, or wrap their hands gratefully around steaming mugs of coffee. He examined each of their faces through the scope of his rifle, taking long enough to be sure but not long enough to linger unnecessarily. The target was yet to arrive.

Suddenly, the Asset's instincts spiked: he flicked his gaze in the direction of the rooftop behind him to where he could feel a presence approaching silently at his back.

There was a scuffle, a flurry of sudden movement as his stealthy assailant threw themself at the Asset at the same moment he wheeled around with the rifle at the ready. Strong hands blocked the intended blow to the assailant's head, and the next moment the Asset's rifle had been tugged right out of his hands while a powerful kick forced him to stagger back a step –

His attacker was a man, the Asset assessed, while calculating a duck and swipe to the man's legs in retaliation. He was parried, evaded again. The rooftop was slippery from the sleet, but the Asset didn't flounder; he unsheathed a knife from his belt and sliced upward in a glint of silver.

There was a clang of a blade against metal - the attacker had used the sniper rifle to deflect the Asset's blow. He was blocked in each of his following attempts to make contact using the knife: his attacker was skilled, the Asset noted, gauging the way the man seemed to wield the rifle like a shield between them with apparent expertise.

Finally, the Asset's knife was tossed out of his hand with the butt of the rifle, but he quickly used the angle to his advantage to knock the weapon clean out of his opponent's grip also.

With a harrowing BANG! the rifle fired on impact, cracking the half-wall that surrounded the roof and scattering away.

Now that the both of them were disarmed, the Asset closed his metal fist on a thickly muscled forearm. Those hands responded by grabbing at the Asset's collar, digging in so tightly that the leather creaked. The Asset used his metal grasp to prevent the man from pulling away while he pummelled his flesh fist into his opponent's face. He felt the skin split against his knuckles upon the second hit, but the tight grip on his collar didn't let up.

Confused, the Asset used his prosthetic to twist the man's arm so far back it should have broken, upending his centre of gravity and throwing him away in a somersault across the rooftop. The Asset needed a second to reconsider his strategy against this most unexpected opponent, it seemed.

The man rolled to a stop, but, bleeding from his cheek and barely out of breath, he was up on his feet again a moment later.

The Asset frowned. Then he noticed that the discarded sniper rifle was lying on the roof much closer to his attacker than the Asset himself for his liking. They both seemed to have realised this at the same time, and before the Asset could get within reach to do anything about it his opponent had snatched up the rifle and swung it around on him, the barrel pointing directly into the middle of the Asset's chest.

The Asset skidded to a stop, mind working quickly: he calculated that he could survive a few bullets to the lung cavity and still manage to disarm this attacker, however, the attacker was obviously trained with a weapon, and the Asset couldn't be sure that the rounds wouldn't miss his heart.

The odds weren't in his favour.

He met the man's eyes as sleet rained down between them. Waited for him to take the shot.

But it never came.

The Asset tracked the trail of blood that trickled down the man's face, clogging in the thick beard that covered his chin. Already the flow was slowing. He swiped the blood away, finally speaking.

“Man, I hate it when we fight.”

Then he moved, but only to empty the chamber of the sniper rifle and then snap the weapon in half over his knee. The Asset's eyes followed the action while his mind put the pieces of their fight together.

Could this be another enhanced soldier like himself? He hadn't been aware that there were others, but that could simply be because the information was outside of his mission. It was his mission, however, to use the fact that this man had just rid himself of his clear upper hand over the Asset to his advantage.

But when the Asset drew a pistol from his belt with his metal arm, the other soldier threw out his hands in a sign of peace.

“Buck, wait! I'm not here to hurt you!” He said quickly, his voice deep and tinged with desperation. “It's me! Bucky, don't shoot!”

Intrigued by these unforeseen events, the Asset paused, but his pistol didn't waver from tracking the other soldier's heart. He could see no visible or concealed weapons on his body, and if things went south again the Asset had a handful of his own weapons within easy reach. He met the other soldier's eyes again.

He had no orders to kill this man. If the incoming siren growing in their direction told him anything, the shot fired from the rifle had given away his position and the target in the diner was already long gone. He'd been compromised, but something about his formidable foe made the Asset wait. Made him listen.

The other soldier looked relieved by the Asset's hesitation, and he straightened up tall with his head held high. He hardly seemed concerned by the pistol aiming at his chest, and his eyes roamed over the Asset's face while his own expression softened significantly.

“It's good to see you, even like this.”

The Asset had no recollection of the other soldier at all.

“How are you, are you alright?”

The Asset's pistol stayed trained on the man's chest.

“Right. Of course you're not alright.” The other soldier made as if to run a hand through his dirty blond hair, but quickly thought better of it due to the fact he was currently being held at gunpoint. The Asset acknowledged the fact he seemed intelligent in that regard, even if his words suggested otherwise.

The siren was louder now – almost too loud – searing into the Asset's ears like the high-pitched hum of The Chair, though he didn't even think to flinch. It rounded the corner and screeched to a halt outside the diner.

The Asset knew they didn't have much longer to stand here and the same realisation seemed to flash across his mysterious opponent's eyes too, as he glanced toward the flash of red and blue painting the walls of the other building.

He squared his jaw, looking right into the Asset's eyes. “Bucky. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes, you're an American soldier from the 107th Regiment who was captured and converted by Hydra against your will.” The man's features softened further when he slowly reached out a hand as though he wanted the Asset to take it, inching closer across the roof with his gaze never leaving the Asset's own. “I know you don't understand right now, and that's okay. But I need you to trust me. We have to get you out of here right now.”

The Asset eyed the outstretched hand in front of him, making sure to maintain his pistol's aim. The metal arm never wavered, but the fingers of his right hand felt like they were beginning to go numb. The Asset didn't understand; he was impervious to the cold, or at least anything less than he was used to in the Chamber. He didn't linger on the sensation, instead narrowing his eyes at the other man.

The peculiar soldier glanced again in the direction of the diner, where the Asset could pick up with his enhanced hearing the static crackle of a police radio chattering about “shots fired”. He could also hear his back-up team coming up through the stairwell to the roof, still a floor or two below.

The other man reacted as though he could hear them too – something that immediately set off alarm bells in the Asset's gut. This soldier, whoever he was, was enhanced, and he was trying to steal the Asset away from Hydra.

“Bucky, quickly! You have to come with me.” The man stretched further, but this time the Asset took a sharp step back. He readjusted his pistol's position, pointing it between the man's eyes instead of his chest. They widened at the movement.

So blue.

“Buck, please. I'm trying to help you. Let me help you.”

The Asset heard the march of approaching footsteps coming up through the stairwell. He could pick out individual voices, familiar tones of his handlers barking at each other as their feet rang on the stairs, ever closer.

“Bucky!”

  
  


– –

  
  


The memory ended as quickly as it had started. Bucky breathed in the damp city air, the light drizzle of rain clinging to him at an increasingly warmer temperature than the ice he'd felt burning against his skin just moments ago – or was it, in fact, decades ago?

He was still crouching at the wall, looking down at the diner. The people inside were none the wiser about what had just happened up here, because why should they be? Bucky hadn't even moved since his flashback began, his joints seemingly locked in place while he relived it all in his mind.

Finally he collapsed his weight against the wall, hanging his head as he blinked away the image and tried to process what he'd just seen. What he'd just _remembered._

He turned his head, looking back over his shoulder at the place where he'd just been standing. Standing with _Steve._ Bucky didn't immediately understand...

And then his gaze landed on a crack in the wall, the shape of a bullet embedded deep inside. It wasn't a fresh mark, the edges of the brick having worn to accept the shape with time. He supposed Hydra would have made sure to take the bullet away, to leave no trace of their secret Winter Soldier behind.

As the memory caught up with him again and Bucky truly began to realise what he'd just witnessed, he slowly rose to his feet, staring at the evidence of their tussle while his hands trembled at his sides.

He'd been on a mission. He'd still been the Fist of Hydra. And Steve... Steve had been there.

Steve had been trying to save him.

  
  


_~ ~ ~ ~_

  
  


“Sam!” Bucky flung open the door to his apartment, wasting no time in running to where he'd left the army vet sleeping on the couch.

A startled grunt greeted him first when Bucky stopped in the doorway, waiting for Sam to clumsily sit up amidst a nest of blankets. He squinted up at Bucky, bedraggled but awake, looking as though someone had just thrown a bucket of ice water over him.

“What time is it?” He mumbled. Then he must have noticed the expression on Bucky's face because he rubbed at his eyes and sat up straighter, intrigue morphing his features. Sam took in the sight of Bucky's jacket and boots, his still damp hair dripping onto his shoulders, his chest heaving and the flush on his cheeks. He met Bucky's eyes again, cocking an eyebrow. “Barnes?”

Bucky didn't know whether he wanted to laugh, cry or both. Instead, he took a moment to calm his breathing and find his voice, the words unbelievable even as they passed his lips.

“I think I know what happened to Steve.”

  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> I actually started writing this fic a few days after Endgame came out and wanted to have it posted sooner, but I've been having technical difficulties with my laptop recently – I think once I conked out after uni ended then my laptop had the same idea!
> 
> Originally this was going to just be a little one-shot (I say 'little' but naturally I mean around 15,000 words) added onto my coping mechanism fic I wrote for Infinity War last year, but this one has run away with me so now it's going to be a multi-chapter story all its own x) 
> 
> If you want to read my stand alone fix-it fic for Infinity War, it's part one of this Wherever You Will Go series
> 
> Thanks for reading! x


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